This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.

Farewell, Uncle Ho

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Chapter 4

The shops, together with most hotels, restaurants and nightclubs along the length of Tu-Do Street are closed, some more permanently than others. The flashy, lusty, glitzy, war-time economy along with black-market wheeling and dealing died in a suicide pact, once the worldwide protectors of boom-and-bust capitalism gave up and went home. Their supply lines have dried up; their lights have now gone out. The street now smells of stale urine and rotting garbage strewn about by the multitudes of refugees in the city.

The absence of troops is surprising, though. Since I've been here, the presence of uniforms, American, Thai, Korean, Australian, and of late many more Vietnamese of various shades, defending the capital, has always dominated the center of Saigon. And unlike the day before yesterday and on through the night, despite the twenty-four-hour curfew, called by an ineffective alibi government to let the panicking Americans evacuate in peace, crazies are no longer roaming the streets, drunken and firing off rounds into the cloudy sky out of frustration of being left behind.

The lack of traffic, particularly the absence of the usually ever-present, dark-blue and cream colored, 4-hp Renault taxis, cyclos, the bicycle rickshaws, and the seven-seater, three-wheel Lambro 550 Dong Carts, used for hauling people in from the suburbs, stokes my apprehension. I keep trying to look through the feathery foliage and podded seeds of the tamarinds for snipers atop the two to five storey buildings. Even if I don’t find any, I know they’re there. Trying to avoid total collapse, I have to keep my attention focused on my surroundings.

The well-kept structures along Tu-Do Street reflect the various architectural tastes and trends from French colonial, like the house, where we live, to Art deco, where Yvette lives. There is even evidence of New Objectivity, typical of the 1930s. The best example of this can be seen at the secret police headquarters up at the other end of Tu-Do, near the cathedral.

Aside from the French feel, any actual military protection by France has been absent since their total withdrawal in April 1956. And particularly between January of '64 to June of '73, there wasn't even any diplomatic protection after the Saigon Government severed relations with Paris, leaving the remaining French civilians with only a consulate. But our embassy reopened in the middle of '73, much to my relief and that of the other roughly ten thousand French still living in country.

Of late, other buildings, like the Miramar or the Caravelle Hotels, both further up on opposite sides of Tu-Do, the latter facing Lam-Son Square and the Opera, or even the USAID's Pittman Building, over on Gia-Long Street, from atop the elevator machine room of which Air America helicopters conducted a series of dramatic evacuation flights for CIA employees, have been erected in the obscenely featureless style of the 1960s. Now, they no longer evoke the feeling of protection by the Americans either, albeit only since yesterday. The atmosphere today is much as I would imagine Saigon to have been following the Japanese invasion during the Second World War, aside from the lack of troops.

Then, not quite half-way up to Lam-Son Square, we come upon a surprise of significant proportion on the other side of Tu-Do. The bath house at number 59 is apparently open for business.

This is the place, in front of which I first met Jules, standing under this sign in peculiar English hanging over the sidewalk, which reads: 'The Neptuna Swimming-Pool, The Health Club with Steam Bath and Massage, The Best Way for Relaxe and Heale'. Read it any way you wish, and you won't be far from the truth. In fact, we'd met here a little over seven and a half years ago. I'd only been in country for less than a couple of days, when I'd phoned him in a panic, having been referred by our mutual friend, Gordon. That had been some five months before the Tet offensive at the beginning of '68, which had given me the ultimate reason to never return to my unit or even to the United States. My deep sigh signals to Jules that sadness again has me in its claws.

Knowing no better place to end a war than in a steam bath, we cross over. When Jules opens the door, we come face to face for the first time with an actual member of the Vietnam People's Army, who gives us a broad but somewhat strained smile, seeming just as surprised as we are. "Hồ bơi được đóng lại. Chúng tôi đang tiến hành các hoạt động quân sự."

Jules just nods and we leave, smiling, waving back at him and thoroughly expecting him to take aim and shoot us, which, of course, he didn’t do. But the chill still runs down our spines as we cross back over the street. Jules lets out a heartfelt sigh and shivers as we continue up the rest of Tu-Do Street's southern half. Passing by the Caravelle Hotel, the Opera on Lam-Son Square comes into view, or as Jules refers to it, the Municipal Theater, we notice that, at the moment, the incessant scurrying seems to be focused here. I'm surprised to see men running around dressed only in boxers apparently missing uniforms.

But we also see unarmed civilians scurrying about, some with packaged goods in their arms. I recognize A&AFES labels, bottles of Foremost-Dairy milk and packages of meat from the American commissary, probably from the warehouses in Newport, all of which will soon be rotting in this heat. They're simple, ordinary people turned refugees, then looters, scavenging for something to eat. Having said that, though, some appear to be scurrying, just to be scurrying due to the general panic, which partly still has its grip on the capital. But I do have the sense that panic is evolving into numb indifference.

To our left, the bulky monument, made of quick-hardening concrete, furnished by USAID and dedicated to the South-Vietnamese Marines is still standing, facing the Opera on the wide tree-lined promenade between the lanes of traffic on Lê Loi Boulevard. Apparently the monument has yet to be located by the newly arrived troops, although the evidence of tank tracks run right by it. But again, maybe demolishing a huge statue of two butch marines, the one appearing to sniff the other's ass while storming the Opera isn't at the top of their political priority list.

At the base of the statue, several men are putting a lifeless body into a jeep, but I don't see exactly what they're doing. I become anxious, and my pulse starts racing at the sight of the scene, which triggers the flashback of the explosion at Lê Loi Circle, the intersection of Nguyen Hue and Lê Loi Boulevards, just one short block away from where I now stand. Only a second after a grenade landed in the jeep, I was blinded by the flash and stunned by the explosion. I still smell ammonia fumes, petrol flames, blood frying, flesh exploding, charring. My eyes force me to focus down Lê Loi between the TAX building on the left and the Rex Hotel on the right, at the point where almost eight years ago my life, as I knew it, ended forever.

I look helplessly at Jules, forcing my eyes off Lê Loi with the activity at the monument and the discarded M-16s at its base, just slightly worried. "What did the soldier tell you, back at the baths? I couldn't quite understand his northern accent."

Jules snorts inadvertently. "He told me that it's closed, and they're conducting military operations."

"No wonder they won." I quip. He looks at me in surprise. "Lots of sex at the bath house. The people here in the South are much too Roman Catholic to really enjoy sex."

Then Jules sputters with laughter slowly coming to the boil. He laughs with diminishing control; I join in. It feels good to release all the tension, not to mention the fear of the past weeks. We're pretty sure now, that we're going to be alright. We know that we've planned well for anything that might come. And a huge relief comes with the hope that this fucking war may truly be over. For the first time in the almost eight years we've known each other, we can probably go to bed tonight without worrying about weaponry from whichever side killing us in our sleep. That is, if we can get to sleep.